


A New Way To Bleed

by sasha_b



Category: King Arthur (2004)
Genre: Language, M/M, Slash, Violence.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-31
Updated: 2016-12-31
Packaged: 2018-09-13 17:01:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9133186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sasha_b/pseuds/sasha_b
Summary: Lancelot finds terror, imagined or real, inescapable.





	

**Author's Note:**

> this seems like a miss mash of a bunch of different ways that I write but I enjoyed letting the brat in my head. Sorry, honey. Next time, not so much angst. Title taken from the song by Evanescence.

 

 

  
The knight surfaces, the icy-freezing horrid water (he thinks _fucking frozen solid_ ) sheeting off him as he blasts upward from the bottom of the lake, hair swamping into his eyes as he breaks the surface.

The sun is blinding off the clear water, dappling through the trees, their winter-skeletal arms rising stiffly to salute the day, perfect soldiers, so much of what he is _not._ He wipes his hair back from his forehead, slicking the wet strands back as it drips down his back, his young face appearing even younger to the other man that sits casually on a flat rock at the edge of the lake. The commander (he's young and green, too, but already wears the red cloak of position, the eagle etched into his cuirass screaming with outstretched wings) watches the knight with hooded eyes, his too dark skin (Britain has baked them all) crinkled with sun damage.

"Sure you don't want to join me," the knight calls, although he knows what the answer will be. The commander smiles only a bit grimly and shakes his head.

"I'll rid myself of my hangover another way, thank you."

Laughing, the knight (Lancelot, first of Arthur's turmae and first of his friends) sloshes through the river bank and plops his naked ass down on the rock, shivering despite the sun on his freckled back and thighs. "Can't keep up with me, Artos. I don't know why you try."

He leans back on his elbows and allows the warmth of the crisp winter light to cook him slightly, his flesh raw from the freezing water and the chafing he'd given it while washing. Arthur (Artos, his commander and friend) rolls his eyes at Lancelot's casual display of nudity and bravado - he secretly envies the conscript his confidence - and without thinking about it tucks a long piece of Lancelot's hair behind his ear when it curls forward on the knight's forehead.

"They have to know the Wall is long repaired," Lancelot says, his voice cracking with dryness ( _pass me the flask, Artos_ ) as he lays all the way down, drinking his fill of their wine. "Don't you think one of the men or the legionaries will come looking for you?"

Sun, bright on his face, coloring his high cheekbones. Arthur watches him again, the long dusky lashes shadowing his skin, the icy lake having brought a flush to his extremities and Arthur's eyes dart to Lancelot's manhood, which is -

"Stop. Staring, and either touch me or let's go, because the great fool Valerius will be sending men looking for you. Not me, Arthur, you, as they don't care if I drown or if I die or if I come back carrying your marks," Lancelot interrupts Arthur's carnal thoughts, sudden and inappropriate as they are.

Arthur's black tunic is old and worn and he doesn't care when Lancelot's questing fingers tear it a bit - chilled skin cold and stiff against his own - a breath in his ear, a tiny murmur of _Artos, commander_ almost bringing him to completion too soon.

His leathers and red cloak make a fine bed for them to rest on. The winter bare trees make fine posts, and the crystal blue sky makes the finest canopy that even Arthur could buy on his rich salary.

Lancelot's head is flung back, his bright amber (flickering, Arthur thinks incoherently, surrounded by the other man's achingly tight flesh) eyes flashing and his full lips (full from Arthur's mouth and cock) are parted as he sucks in air, breathing in Arthur's (commander, he thinks, _how foolish am I to do this here, now?_ ) musk and sweat and he cords his neck and his muscles scream as Arthur's body pounds him into the rock beneath him, the other man's right hand shoving his left leg up, bending it so he can reach Lancelot's body more easily, the angle at which Arthur fucks him almost too mu-

The sparkling sun trips back and forth through the trees empty limbs and Lancelot screams an oath in his native tongue as he

_can't do this anymore, he's too much for me to control and still be able to live in this world without giving up everything just to kneel at his feet_

comes and clenches his legs around Arthur's waist and digs his bitten nailed fingers into Arthur's arms and tears and slams his head into the rock (he takes no notice of the pain) and laughs and sighs and feels the warm rush from Arthur's own release just as the sound of horses fills his ears - the sound of legionaries and the sound of men shouting and the sound of thundering hooves and he is snatched from Arthur, naked as the day he was born, and the last thing he sees before they jerk him to kneel on the bare stone, the last thing before the Roman men that have been sent to retrieve the _lost_ or _the Woads have got him, surely_ Ala Commander cut him from groin to throat -

_Sarmatian dog attacked our Ala Commander the sentence is death there is no question_

he's never seen horror on Arthur's face like that before. Not in battle, not with the death of knights, not from the pain of life. Arthur, who's as naked as he is (one of the legionaries is covering him with his red cloak) and Arthur, who's shouting _let him go for God's sake I'm fine_ and Arthur, who's sun burnt skin is dark red with anger - Arthur surges forward, to do what, Lancelot's not sure.

_Do not worry. I will return._

Lancelot turns his head as the kiss of ice cold steel marks the back of his neck and he hears Arthur yell something, a babble of words that sound like his name and _I command you to stop I am Rome do as I say_ but the whistle of the lifted sword is too loud and he opens his eyes wide to the trees, their branches in salute, the sun blasting through the world, the winter sky suddenly full of scudding clouds and he can taste his own blood and _there is no fear only death and yet I had love_

The rain pours down and Lancelot huddles against one of the giant monoliths that make up the rock ring that hides several sleeping knights, his swords held like the tiniest of birds in his hands, no need to grip them or hold them with anger or fear. Their campfire flickers pathetically in the snowy drizzle and Arthur is next to him suddenly, the other man's bulk drifting from shadow to shadow as he always does, silent, deadly, lost to Lancelot.

"Anything?"

"No, Arthur."

"Do you need a break from - "

"I need to stay awake."

Arthur doesn't answer that, as he alone (maybe Tristan too, but the scout never mentions it) knows the secret that Lancelot carries during the long night he can never escape.

"I'll get you something to drink," Arthur says and is gone before Lancelot can stop him. He sighs and slips one blade into the frozen ground at his feet, the tip penetrating the hard earth with a shove that is reminiscent of everything Lancelot holds dear in this life - the penetration of the sword through an enemy's body and the penetration of flesh into flesh and the penetration of love into an unwelcome - terrified and lonely - heart.

He accepts the flask from Arthur, and since it is so dark and so cold and he can't fight his dreams any longer he accepts the touch Arthur - so long Artos, brother, friend, lover - gives him gently, as if afraid Lancelot will move and destroy the moment.

Ice and sleet begin to fall and Arthur's hand is the only thing that's warm in Lancelot's life; a calloused reminder of what is real and what he actually feels and what is important. No why's or what could have been's or _they'll kill me if we're caught_ or _I love you, Lancelot_ or _you can't, we can't do this_ or _I'm going to leave you first, Roman, before you leave me_.

The things in Lancelot's repetitive dream might as well come true, because without this simple touch, he is already dead.

The soft and strong hand lays at the nape of his neck and he breathes, once, twice, and thinks on that lake and the icy water and the fact that no soldiers had actually come that day even though he dreams they did.


End file.
